


Dark and the Sword

by phoenixreal



Category: Original Work
Genre: Animal Traits, Blood and Injury, Corruption, Deities, Escape, F/F, F/M, FWUCollections, Fantasy, M/M, Multi, Original Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-26 00:34:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15652143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixreal/pseuds/phoenixreal
Summary: The world of Avern has moved on. It has been almost a thousand years since the day the entire pantheon disappeared.  Since the Abandonment, the mortals have learned to live without gods and goddesses. The world became mundane with little magic, and even less hope.  Tyrants have risen, and those able to wield what is left of magic are powerful.  Forces surge in the darkness that threaten to topple the already fragile world. The plight of the world of Avern is not unknown, however, and those that watch from a distance have decided to intervene.  The mortals are sleeping, however, unknowing that two great powers will soon by vying for control.Then something happens that changes things. A young princess makes a bid for power by murdering her father.  She then attempts to murder her sister, the crown princess of Lineria, Keiara. Despite a true strike, aided by dark powers, Keiara doesn’t die. Instead, the strike pierces the barrier between her human soul and the soul sleeping within her, the soul of the Dark Phoenix. More than a goddess, the Dark Phoenix is the legendary mother of the gods.  She is a part of the Eternal Phoenix that brought life to their world eons ago, one of the primal forces of the cosmos.





	Dark and the Sword

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to Dark and the Sword. This is the first book of a series of seven. So please, leave a comment about it and let me know what you like and don't like, that way I can make changes before I publish it. Please leave any feedback and I'll take it to heart. I want this to be the best work it can possibly be.
> 
> Preview Chapter Only. Please see facebook.com/phoenixreal for updates on this work.
> 
> Please note: book includes graphic descriptions of violence and Rape/Non Con. There is none in this preview chapter.

* * *

 

Prologue

Roll of Ages

* * *

  _The ages roll on endlessly,_

_Whether we move ourselves or not._

_We must move,_

_Or be rolled over and forgotten._

_\--Serista, Seer of the Noran t’Kalima_

* * *

The world of Avern has changed. Nearly a thousand years ago, the world as we knew it came crashing down upon us, changing forever. The Divine left us alone, and the Old Ages all ended. There was no reason we mortals could see, there were no explanations offered; they were simply gone.

But how could we know such a thing, we’ve been asked? Perhaps they were still there, and we didn’t realize it. Perhaps they had just withheld their powers. Perhaps they just went quiet. Of course, this was all possible, at least in the beginning. The first signs were the effects on the priests. At first, the people thought surely some evil had come to the world, and the healing powers of the holy priests had been staunched. But then the emissaries of the other side came forth angered that we had somehow interfered with their unholy abilities to channel their deities influence. After several skirmishes between the two sides, it was revealed neither had the power of the gods on their side. The effect was immediate. Houses of healing were no longer healing the minor maladies of their local populations. What had been easy to remove, small things such as pox or poison, remained. The Houses of Healing changed within a few short years; instead of magical healing, they sought herbs and nature’s own remedies to the things they once removed with a wave of the hand.

Some would continue to argue that it was impossible that the gods were gone. Even with the irrefutable evidence of the priests’ powers leaving them, they said we were not faithful enough, so they had gone quiet. Then more were left without power. Those who said the gods were withholding their favor rethought things when they heard of the complete disappearance of the Keeper of Stars’ chosen children, the Oracles.

In our world, magic was once very simple. Wizards used the three spheres of magic, the darkness, or psychic magic, the light, or spirit magic, and the elemental, or nature magic. A very few could practice two of these spheres, which allowed them a secondary magic ability. Elemental and darkness could be combined to use time magic. Elemental and light could be combined to use spatial magic. Finally, and by far the most common of the secondary magic was the combination of light and darkness, yielding the ability to practice cycle magic.

Long ago, there was rumored those who could practice all three spheres which yielded a tertiary magic, but in the last thousand years, these mysterious Oracles have not been seen.

There were many which had no training in magic, sometimes called sorcerers, sometimes called demons and devils. Springing from the psychic abilities of darkness, those with natural abilities arise now and then which are called prophets. Those who hold in them the innate ability of the Spirit magic of light were called the Seers. Finally, those who naturally held the power of nature were named the druids. These are now gathered and taken to the Forge of Magic as soon as they are born, and a mark is seen on the child.

Prophets are marked with vivid purple eyes. Seers are marked with pale eyes which turn white when their powers are used, and the Druids are marked with hair tinged green in color. Once they are found they are sent to be trained at the Forge. Strangely, they are never seen from again.

None, however, have been born with the Mark of the Oracle. In fact, it has been lost to time what the Mark of the Oracle was. 

The power of the wizards was rising, however. Their abilities were not as great as it once had been, but they still had more magic than the average person. All wizards were to be trained at the Forge, and under direct control of the leaders there. Any misuse or unauthorized use of magic was punishable by magical tortures and death. The people began to fear magic, and with that fear, the governments began to assert their control. None were permitted to use magic without official papers for it. Those who dared to do so could be sent to prison, or worse.

So, why did the Keeper of Magic, Kalimourne, choose to Abandon us? It was obvious she had indeed left now that the chosen Oracles were no more, and magic had diminished. Perhaps the Mother of Elves is the one which pains me the most to think left us alone. She was so gentle and caring for all, not just her children.  What would she say today if she knew her children killed any not of their kind on sight without question? The other Keepers, of Life, Nature, and Death, were also gone. But without them, the world moved onward without many problems, at least that we could see. The loss of the Keeper of Magic, or the Keeper of Stars as she was also known, was keen.

Nay, no more Oracles rose to power.  Instead, wizards learned of the Spheres of Magic. Many held the hope they may have had the powers granted by the Path of Stars, or perhaps the sorcerous talents, but they never did. Wizards who were found to have the Talent were trained in their chosen Sphere, and no matter what, their choice could not be altered, and they could not learn more than one. They were found to have the ability of psychic magic, spirit magic, or elemental magic alone. Wizards came to the forefront of the battle for the truth, but their magic could not find it. Seers and Prophets only could see a veil before their vision. For some reason, it was as though a dark thing had descended to block what they normally would see. It seemed the gods wished to be left alone after all. So, the mortals were left to debate without magical aid.

For years, the debate raged. Did the Divine simply leave us because we were unfit? Did they leave because they were bored with us? Why? There were many sides, and the debates turned to fighting, and the fighting to wars.

The Elves spoke nothing; they simply closed their borders and made it near impossible for travel near their homelands. Long winding roads had to be built to pass them by as the power over time and space had been lost, and portals were no longer possible. The Dwarves retreated to their underground citadels and were rarely seen, and always surly when encountered. The Orcs waged wars across the wildlands with the shifters. The Beast Lords rose to power and combated the Orc forces which threatened to raze entire provinces. The gnomes of the Seran Jungle stayed out of things, remaining insulated in their own small world. Places that had been bastions of hope and commerce became desolate and worthless.

It did not matter. There were no gods left to ask so the truth would remain untold. Until the dawning of the Ages of Destruction, the arguments continued. For many hundreds of years, the very lands rose against the people, and great destruction followed. Homes were ruined, and the very landscape was altered. But eventually, nearly two hundred years ago, the Ages of Destruction ended.

The Age which followed was something that not many could understand as the same as the previous Age. It brought no destruction, or at least, not the destruction they had seen for the previous Ages. Instead, the Age of Law had come. Lands began to organize and form nations. Rulers came to the forefront of every land. No one was left to their own devices, instead all had someone to answer to. Roads were built, and people trained in many ways. Perhaps though, we forgot too much. We forgot that Law can be as deadly as any other power. During this Age of Law came the time of the Regulators.

The various kingdoms came together in the great Council of Magic, a place of learning and research, and decided because magic was precious it should be controlled. It was decided a representative from each kingdom would be a part of the creation of a force of skilled individuals they dubbed the Regulators. Their job was to discover those with the Talent, those born with the Marks, and bring them to the Citadel of Magic in the mountains north of the great kingdom of Lineria. The Citadel was not in the governance of any one kingdom, but instead governed by all kingdoms. At the beginning, it was a place of learning and solace for those born with magic still in their veins.

Thus, the Regulations were created. Their most powerful wizards began to cast webs throughout the kingdoms, enabling them to detect unauthorized magic use. And eventually, anyone who was not registered within the kingdoms was apprehended and taken to the Forge. No one was allowed in or out of the Forge save those who ran the building. Those taken there by force were never seen again. Nestled as it was in the mountains north of Lineria, there was no way in save magic, and the only ones who knew how to get in were the High Wizards.

As the Wizards have come to power, so have governments using fear and oppression come to power alongside them. Alliances between powerful countries keep the people in check. The non-humans hide from the humans out of fear and hatred.

Now is the Age of Chaos, when the world is changing rapidly

The Veil stands before us like a black curtain which shrouds the end of times. Prophets have always seen the future, and now they cannot. The answer is quite simple; the shroud is the herald of the End Times. The End Times herald the end of the world. Avern as it is now will be no more. The prophecies are clear about only one thing. When the End Times come, the Eternal One will be reborn for a third time on Avern. The first time brought life. The second brought death. We know not what the third time will bring. And the world will forever be changed, and most likely destroyed. The prophecies simply stop at the End Times. The only other possible explanation is perhaps the End Times is still an area where events are yet to be determined. I would like to believe it.

For the last thousand years, and for five thousand years before, Prophets of Avern have agreed on one thing. There has always been a point in the distant future which they cannot see past. There is a point when everything simply is black. Prophecy upon prophecy has been written, but they simply stop now. For the first time in our long history, events are being written without foreknowledge. How things will happen, none know. Perhaps it will simply be all the magics pass from this world. Perhaps the world will end after all. No matter.

The End Times have come.

I’m the last of my kind, faithful to my last days to the Truth Speaker, though her gentle touch I’ve never felt, and will never know. I find no one to take my place, no one who wishes to work in the name of those who Abandoned us. That is sad, but perhaps one day the Divine will return.  Perhaps we shall know one day. I am in my seventy-fifth year, however, and it is unlikely I will witness any changes. I would love to chronicle such changes, though, in the name of my goddess.

By the Truth Speaker’s pen, I swear to the truth of this book’s words.

\-- _Excerpt from the Book of Lost Ages, penned by Vranimina Vertrica, Last Truth Warder, in the Year 4999 of the New Age_

* * *

Chapter One

Solstice Eve Blood Moon

* * *

_The moon rimmed in fire red,_

_Will bring tidings of the dead._

_So, watch the skies, child born high,_

_For they in wait for you lie._

\-- _Avernese children’s rhyme_

* * *

The world was dark, snow covered, and quiet. The winter moon was hidden behind the clouds now, disguising its nearly full berth. The snows which covered the mountains both north and east lay thick and heavy, and the fall had only abated within the last few hours. The mountains, it seemed, had finally decided to don their winter cloaks, as the season had come late this year. Tomorrow was already the first day of Montemor, the first month of winter, and the winter solstice. It was a typical Solstice Eve, though, with great festivals and celebrations going on all over. Luckily, the snow had abated soon enough for the people of Lineria to make it to the streets to celebrate.

A chill was carried on the air, though, which Captain Jovan Listenrissas did not like at the slightest. He stood on the battlements and watched the flickering lights far below. People celebrated this year again, but he could hear none of it, for the castle stood on the side of the King’s Mount, high above the capital city of Meitan’s Rest. Only two months ago the Winding Down was celebrated in much the same way. The celebrations were wild and raucous, but he supposed the depressed people of Lineria needed to get their mind off things. The winter had come late but had come hard and icy. The last two days the snow had fallen over a thick ice that had rained down before it began. It had frozen all commerce in the kingdom.  

He dragged a hand along the gray stone, his leather and wool gloves protecting his fingers from the snow and ice coating everything. It rose up on the merlons which almost came to the top of his head and dropped down into the depth of the embrasures which were level with his waist. He wore a heavy woolen cloak, deep red and trimmed in gold. These were the colors of Lineria’s crest, a gold rampant mountain lion on a red background. His leather armor creaked slightly when he walked, but it was far better than the armor some of his men wore. Granted, it was lined heavily with wool for the winter months, so it was much bulkier than he liked.

Jovan had been many things in his life, a fighter, a ranger, a thief, and now a captain in the palace guard, but he always chose mobility over protection. He couldn’t imagine the misery some of his men were in wearing those tin suits, as he mockingly referred to them. He shook his head, his black hair free under the edges of the fitted leather cap he wore and coming down to just over his neckline. It wasn’t really regulation, but everyone let him by with it. No one would deny Jovan’s abilities when it came to being a captain of the guard. He seemed to have an intuitive sense for trouble. Since he’d joined the guard, he’d caught seven infiltrators from neighboring armies, as well as tracked down seven deserters. That didn’t even count the multiple times he’d managed to find spies in the kingdom at large before he’d been transferred to the palace guard.

He moved onward, his left hand now on the short sword at his hip, his right using a spear to walk with. He left strange impressions in the fresh snow, almost like some three-legged creature. He smiled to himself. Bartholomew had not been making his rounds in the last hour or so; there were no tracks added to the ground since he’d last come by. Only a tracker, however, would notice that among the snow dusted tracks already there. And tracking was one of the things Jovan did best.

He saw him leaning in the crenel in the wall next to the bastion at the northwestern corner and saw him staring downward. Jovan said nothing but knew his lady had been by to wave up at him as she usually was this time of night. He paused for a minute and let Bartholomew straighten back up and turn towards him.

“Captain, Sir!” he said with surprise.

Jovan waved it off. “Mina came to wave up at you again, I see.”

Bartholomew’s jaw dropped, and Jovan hid a smile. “Um…yes…sir… I’m sorry sir, it’s just I don’t get to see her much and the only time I can is when she comes to wave at me, I mean I’m sorry I haven’t been on my round waiting here for her…” he rushed onward.

Jovan shook his head and put a finger to his lips, and Bartholomew finally quieted.

“It is okay, I know what it is to love,” he said and went to lean on the wall beside the young man. The cold was cloying, penetrating even the layers of leather and padding on his arms. The stone seemed frozen to its very heart this night.

Jovan could see the relief flood Bartholomew’s pale face at his words. The people of Lineria were fair skinned, especially here at the palace in the northlands. Close to the Ice Crown, the people were mostly all of light complexions, and had flaxen to red hair. The cold and wet carried on most of the days, only the deep of summer bringing warm sun to the chilled lands. Jovan smiled, pulling off his glove slowly and stretching his olive toned skin. He was twice as dark in skin color as most of the Linerians. But of course, he wasn’t Linerian. He slipped his glove back on and smiled at Bartholomew. As usual, he looked at Jovan with a mix of awe and confusion, as though he really didn’t know what to think of this man who was gentle yet stern at the same time.

 Jovan turned away from him and stared out over the waterless moat. There was little need of a filled moat with a castle stronghold built into the side of a mountain. The entire east side was protected by the mountain, and the wall tapered into a craggy rock moat, a completely natural formation. The wall itself was around thirty feet tall, and the moat reached another twenty before the bottom of the chasm. There was a spot just on the other side that it looked like someone had stood there for a while. Most humans wouldn’t be able to see such a thing, but Jovan could. Well, honestly, he wasn’t human at all. Sometimes, like now, it amused him greatly to masquerade among them, and for the last three hundred years he’d done just that. Jovan turned to Bartholomew.

“Is she worth it all, my boy?” he asked, and watched as the young man’s light brown eyes began to glow.

He nodded furiously, making a tinny ringing sound with his helm hitting his neckpiece. “Oh yes sir! She’s the most beautiful and caring and lovely and beautiful woman I’ve ever met!”

Jovan didn’t laugh, only smiled and nodded. “That’s good, Bartholomew, that’s good. If you love her that much, take care of her, and she’ll return your love, you know.”

Bartholomew smiled, revealing reasonably white teeth for his age. Jovan couldn’t help but notice a lot of humans didn’t take good care of themselves. Maybe it was because they lived less than a hundred years that they didn’t seem to worry about caring for themselves. The boy had a leg up on many of them. He looked up into the sky and saw the moon had come out from behind the snow clouds finally. His eyes widened slightly, and he stood with a sudden stiffness, which was quite uncharacteristic of the ordinarily casual and easy-going Jovan.

“Bartholomew, do you see that?” he said pointing to the full moon. Around it, a ring of soft red glowed.

The young man stared. “Yeah, strange.”

“That’s a blood moon. It’s an ill omen. Something is going to happen tonight, something evil...” He paused and shook his head. It couldn’t be. It was perhaps since he left home that he had felt the tickle in his brain of the old prophecies, before the Prophet’s power failed.

Bartholomew chuckled, but it was an uneasy chuckle, and Jovan looked at him with an arched eyebrow. “I don’t think so; I think it’s just smoke.”

Jovan leaned back on the battlement with one elbow against the arrow loop in the merlon behind him, his initial shocked attitude and worry apparently fading from his face as quickly as it had come. “Smoke?”

“Yeah, didn’t you hear? There’s some sort of forest fire to the northeast, up past the mountains in Phomean,” he said, pointing towards the west, where of course nothing could be seen.

It was at least fifteen miles to the mountains, and perhaps ten more miles still to cross them, at least a two-day ride on horseback. Jovan caught the slight shake of the man’s finger as he pointed. Jovan got the impression Bartholomew was very good at pretending he didn’t understand the significance of these large events in the world.

“Forest fires? Why would they let them get out of control?” he asked, thoroughly confused by the idea, standing up and staring, his casual demeanor slipping once again. Even his bright blue eyes could not see anything out of the ordinary.

“Well that has to be it,” Bartholomew continued, narrowing his eyes at his captain. “The scouts have been reporting a thick haze in the area which they dare not cross, and it smells like smoke to them.”

Jovan turned to him sharply, blinking his eyes several times, once again, the mask of ease fading completely from his face this time, replaced by obvious concern and worry. “For how long?” he asked.

Bartholomew turned to him and straightened up. “I think the last week or so…”

“A week! Has anyone reported it to the king?” he exclaimed, dropping the spear to the ground beside him in shock, his normally controlled expression wild eyed. The king might have been ill, but he should be informed of such things. He, like Jovan, would likely recognize things for what they just might be. He saw the confusion on Bartholomew’s face, but he really had no time to explain to him the reason smoke would put him in such a state. Sometimes he believed they learned nothing in their lifetimes!

Bartholomew shook his head, and Jovan took off at a run towards the king’s chambers across the parapet. A forest fire indeed! As he thought and ran he let himself go, and only Bartholomew behind him noticed the fact he left no tracks in the snow as he ran. What fire mage in his right mind would let one ravage for a week? It was true they could be beneficial in some cases, but for a week? No, it was no fire. It couldn’t be. If it had gotten out of control past the elemental mage’s capability, they would have requested Linerian assistance, and he’d gotten no requests. He was willing to bet he knew what it was, and it had nothing to do with fire, and a lot to do with magic. It might have been forbidden Magic of a kind which hadn’t been seen in the last thousand years if he didn’t miss his guess. As he ran his leather cap rode up higher on his head, revealing to any who cared to look distinctly pointed elven ears.

Jovan was indeed more than he seemed, and was in fact a renegade Whispara t’Kalima, or as the common people called them, the air-kin elves. He’d left his home in the Anaset Forest because he did not want to live his life only among his kind. He carried the _vanasta,_ or the wandering ways, as the old druid told him when he was young. That had been before he and his father had died, and Jovan lost all reason to stay in the Anaset. His sister had watched him go, knowing he could never return, for to leave the forest was punishable by death among his people. Should Jovan somehow survive return from the outside world, of course, which was known to be unfriendly toward the magically inclined elven peoples.

Jovan took a hard turn and leapt gently across the short expanse between the outer wall and the inner wall. There was only one place which was close enough for Jovan, and only Jovan, the jump across, and it was close to where he’d left the dumbfounded Bartholomew. Even then, the leap over the outer courtyard was at least twenty feet, and impossible for most to believe anyone could jump it. Jovan forgot he could be seen and made the leap anyway, garnering the attention of a couple sleepy and alcohol weary guards below. Both looked at each other and didn’t say anything, believing they’d definitely drank too much at the feast before they came on duty.

Jovan ran quickly across the snowy ice, not slipping one time despite the slick nature of the stone he ran on. His mind was too busy working over the things he had seen, and he honestly wasn’t even thinking about the thirty foot drop off the wall if he slipped. But then, Jovan’s body had a way of taking care of itself without him having to think about it. He took a run at the stairs leading up to the keep wall that stood even higher than the inner wall and ran across the stone expanse between the four towers. He was on top of the main building and passed a couple guards who briefly stared but didn’t bother him. He was the captain on watch tonight. He ran down the steps leading down into the building that spiraled downward for two stories and exited into the grand hall below.

Jovan came to the hand carved doors to the inner sanctum of the castle and kept running. All along the walls, paintings of the king’s slain wife Good Queen Anaya appeared, and paintings of his two daughters, Keiara and Sealla. The king’s wife had died mysteriously to a poisoning that was never identified soon after Jovan had come to Lineria, and he regretted it greatly because she had been a beautiful soul. Jovan had been this way so many times; he barely noticed them. In fact, he barely paid any attention to anyone here save the King himself, and possibly the other Captains. And even the other Captains had to admit, Jovan had far more knowledge than any of them, almost as though he were older than he seemed.

If only they knew how old he was, they would be so surprised. He’d already lived through many of their lifetimes and had many more left to go, unless he got himself killed. He paused before turning the corner and tucked his hair back into place and pulled his cap down once more. He came to the end of the hallway and turned left into the next one to find his way blocked by two of the House guards. Outside on the battlements and in the courtyards, he could control things; in here, he could not.

“Let me through, I must see the king!” he announced.

He could see the light coming toward the doorway and stepped back, assuming the King had heard his voice. Even in his sudden poor state of health, he would speak to Jovan, surely. He trusted Jovan more than anyone, and Jovan has a suspicion he knew more about Jovan than he let on.

Sealla stepped out instead. Jovan’s face unconsciously scrunched up at the sight. She was dressed in great finery for such a late hour he thought, noting the fine scarlet satin and black velvet gown she was wearing. A strange outfit for an hour after sunset, when most the castle was sleeping. Her golden hair was pulled back from her face in a tight bun on top of her head, and as she turned Jovan saw she held the King’s crown in her hand. She put it behind her and faced him.

“Captain, I’m afraid father has passed from this world,” she said quietly, and Jovan’s anger built.

She carried no remorse and no tears at the fact. Her eyes were dark and revealed nothing, and Jovan was certain they were supposed to be gray. Things were beginning to clear in his head. They had been gray, he thought, recalling the paintings along the walls. She was not the same, and he sensed the power inside her, and it was not her own. The power was dark, and he could feel its malevolence. He bit his lip. It was as though an aura of darkness was surrounding and emanating from her.

“What was of such importance?” she asked quietly and there was an edge to her voice which threatened to pierce Jovan and let his lifeblood.

He shook his head. “Just some matters of the guard. It can wait, my lady, until a later time.”

He bowed graciously to her and she turned and walked away without a word, and almost without a sound. Jovan’s breathing had grown deeper though, and he knew he had to leave now. The pieces were beginning to fit together. She was the cause. If she were indeed the one causing the haze as he now suspected, she would find out about his origin in no time, and an elf among humans was as good as dead. He ran back to where he’d left the bewildered Bartholomew standing, leaping the gap in the walls again, and making sure the two guards below would believe they’d certainly drank too much. Bartholomew still stood there, waiting, it seemed.

 “I must go, Bartholomew, I fear my time here has ended with the King’s death. I have to beat that smoke, or my life won’t last long,” Jovan said nodding to the young man, whose face became even more confused. He knew nothing of the King’s death and wondered at why the Captain would be running from it.

He hopped up onto the crenel with the lightest of steps, almost as though some force propelled him and smiled, pulling off his cap and brushing his hair from his face, revealing the elven ears. Bartholomew started to say something, but Jovan leapt from the crenellations and whispered a word to the wind and was lifted onto the air. He breathed in the wind as it whispered back to him. It was the most amazing feeling in the world, and after fifteen years as a Captain of the guard in Lineria, he was glad to be riding the winds again. Of course, this had nothing to do with his air-kin elven heritage. Even the old druid could not explain his ability to speak to the wind like this and have it do his bidding. Of course, Jovan knew what was coming after he landed. He could only hope to land somewhere relatively safe, but he was taking a huge risk in the winter of the north. There was a chance he, with no supplies, would freeze before morning when he landed.

Bartholomew watched for a moment. He looked slow. In fact, most considered him clumsy and dull witted. He was slow to anger, slow to laugh, and even slower to act, but he was not what he seemed. He had always known something was different about his captain, and now it explained things. His mother would have known what to make of it, but they had dragged her away to the Forge many moons ago. He blinked slowly and then looked up at the Blood Moon. Yes, it was indeed a Blood Moon, the one his mother had spoken of the day before she was taken away.

* * * * *

Awakening, eyes of night fluttered in the depths of darkness. The call had come. Slowly, slowly, the heart within began to beat and pump dark fire once again. How long had it been? How many years since her breath filled a body? Stirring within the warm confines of a mortal form, the dark began to uncoil and fill the body. How long indeed? Reaching out to touch the children, she recoiled. The mortal form began to weep, also asleep in the world of Avern.

Gone? Where had they gone? Her precious children, so many, and she could touch none of their minds. After a panicked moment, she remembered, yes, they were gone, that is why she had chosen to come. She needed to find them.

The others? Where were the others? Darkness reached out and sought the light, touched its sleeping form and she smiled. Darkness reached out again and felt the sleeping forms of the others, the warmth of the fire, the sturdiness of the earth, the soothing of the water, and the touch of the air. She was the first to awaken to the world. But she was sleeping still within this new mortal form. Something had to release her, something would have to break the barrier between her and the mortal soul and allow the two to become one.

Opening her mind to the cosmos, the connection to the Maker and Unmaker solidified, and all that was known to the Maker and Unmaker was known to her sleeping mind. So much, so long a time had passed on the world. She knew the cosmos were cut off to her children and had been so for many centuries. She knew without the sustenance of the cosmos, the time of their end would be coming soon, too soon. Why had it been so long? Why nearly a thousand years? She did not know the reasons; she only knew there had been no change that the Maker and Unmaker could tell. Of course, that was why she came to the world of Avern. Beyond the reach of the mortal world, the Maker and Unmaker could merely mark the passage of time, but not necessarily the events of the world they watched. She was their connection to the children who kept the balance. But the balance of the world was gone, and if something wasn’t done quickly, there was going to be a catastrophe which even she could not phantom for the people of Avern.

She sighed in silence and rested. The storm would be here soon, and she would be the storm-bringer. She took comfort in the fact the presence of the other five were there yet sleeping. She was unsure why she was needed first, perhaps because of the mortal body she had taken up residence in. But time passed slowly as she slept. So warm, she was, but soon it would be cold. Like a newborn babe howling in terror at the sudden light and cold after the comfortable safety of the dark warmth of the mother’s womb, she would come screaming into this world.

* * * * *

Ahead of him he saw the haze creeping from the mountain ranges. He sucked in a breath sharply. How did she draw enough power to do this? It was the same dark power he’d sensed in her, like coiling black death. He had been here for fifteen years, and in that time, his senses of her had never indicated she could have that much power to work with. She’d always been a strange child, and he’d watched her grow into her magical ability. He’d also never sensed the power he’d sensed from her tonight in the hallway. Something had changed recently and changed drastically. He sped the wind along at an even more frantic pace, though as he did, he felt his strength waning. He knew now what it was. A binding barrier spell, on the grandest scale he’d ever seen. He had to get out before the spell finished binding the borders…

There was an unusual sound above him as Jovan neared the border, looking for a gap in the barrier that was not quite complete. His power was waning faster than he’d have liked, but he’d managed to turn a day’s hard horseback ride into a six-hour wind ride. Unlike moving over the terrain, he didn’t have to go up and down the nearly impassable passes, most of which were blocked with rockfalls these days, making a straight line from the capital city to the border with Phomean where the edge of the Windsong Mountains met the Burning Fury Mountains. He still had at least a day’s walk ahead of him to get out of the mountains and into the nearest town in Phomean, however. He glanced up, the winds nearly dropping him as his concentration shifted. He blinked several times then lost complete control of the winds and went into a spinning dive toward the ground, managing to cushion himself with the surrounding air somewhat. Luckily, he was only about fifty feet from it, but he hit with a cracking sound as his wrist shattered on impact. He had managed to get through the barrier though and was in Phomean, but as he rolled to his back his eyes locked on another pair of eyes in the tree above him.

She was stark naked, and despite the fact, her nakedness was the last thing he noticed. The first was the striking resemblance to Keiara, except it couldn’t be her, Keiara was blonde haired, this woman had jet black hair, and Keiara’s eyes were vivid blue, not black like this woman. It could not be the first princess, after the king’s death, she would now be queen. He didn’t know this woman at all, but still longed to reach out to her. But besides that, what make Jovan’s heart stop was pair of great nearly transluscent black wings spreading out from her back, making her look like some sort of dark angel of death. For a moment, Jovan wondered if he was dead, and somehow Keiara all this time had been hiding a secret that she was a reaper of the dead.

Behind her, the grayish barrier finished knitting together, and there was a sound like silent thunder as for a moment the gray shimmered and shined, then it was simply gone. To any who looked, there was nothing beyond the barrier at all, no land, no sea, nothing. Lineria lay behind, but none could get to it now without Sealla’s magic opening the way. Jovan swallowed hard and stood up, the exhaustion beginning to flood him. He stumbled to the side, and without thinking tried to brace himself with his right hand. He screamed out and fell to his knees as soon as the pain from the shattered remains flooded him. Then he stared at up her, she still looked at him from her perch, perfectly balanced, perfect in the moonlight with snow falling around her. And Jovan sighed. The threads of ancient prophecy began to tie together in his mind. If he remembered all of it correctly, this was only the beginning. The snow began to fall heavy once more, but Jovan simply slid into darkness, the pain in his wrist a memory just like the sight of the dark princess.

* * * * *

The Forge was cold in the uppermost tower this evening, the eve of the Solstice. Nestled in the very north east of Lineria, close to the Cliffs of Chaos at the edge of the Cragtooth Mountains, the Forge was a huge citadel built at the base of Throgu’s Mouth, facing the Sea of Terster. There was no way in or out of the Forge save by magic, the rugged cliffs and impassable sea on one side, and the meeting of the three mountain ranges on the other three sides. If the site was forbidding, there was good reason. For many years, the dealings of the Forge were best kept hidden from the view of the general populace. The intention they stated was to keep people safe. They gathered those with magic in their blood to train them. Of course, what was said and done were two very different things at the Forge of Magic.

Yes, it was Solstice Eve. Here, no one celebrated. No one dared make joyful noise. The door opened in a tower on the farthest north east section of the citadel. From the tallest room, one could clearly see for miles across the icy Sea of Terster, and just in the distance make out a land mass. Some thirty miles off the coast sat the Isle of Night, an even more forbidding landscape than that which surrounded the Forge. The island was volcanic, and very active, and now and then filled the air with ash and forced those who lived in the Forge to close themselves up and wear masks to keep from breathing in the poisonous substance. Right now, a great gout of smoke puffed up in the distance, and they knew another ash storm would be coming.

“Master?” a feeble voice said carefully.

A dark figure was silhouetted in the window. Thin, gangly, with a wild and messy bunch of black hair on top of his head, he appeared much too young to be called “master”. He turned his head slowly, his eyes burning red as he locked eyes with the pale old man before him. Despite the frightening aspect of his eyes, the old man did not flinch nor react, merely waited for his master to acknowledge him. The boy nodded.

“He’s here,” he said slowly. “Do you want him to come up?”

The slim figure nodded, and then turned his red gaze back out the stone window to the snowscape before him. His eyes rested on the red rimmed moon and he smiled, teeth jagged and sharp exposed to the world for a brief moment before the grisly smile faded. The door shut gently, almost without a noise, and soon after it reopened in the same manner.

“Massster!” the surly voice of the newcomer said, hissing in a very subtle way as he spoke.

A man in a garishly red cloak stood in the doorframe and stared around the sparse room. His eyes, black and rimmed in red rested on his master. He waited for his master to speak, and pushed back the red hood of the cloak, revealing a bald head covered with scales. His tongue constantly flicked across his lips, as though tasting the air around him. A closer look would reveal the forked nature of his tongue. The figure at the window sat on the sill still, one leg planted firmly on the floor, the other laying angled along the stone. He turned his red eyes on the cloaked man.

“Your quarry,” he said in the voice of a child. “It has been released. The barrier near Phomean. You’ll know it. Report back which quarry it is.”

The man nodded and bowed deeply. “Your will to my hand, masssster.”

“And don’t lose it,” the boy said, turning his red eyes away and back out to the snow. “Your punishment will be eternal. Play with it all you desire, but bring it living to me, and willing, it must be willing to sacrifice itself to me. The power is useless if it is not given.”

The man swallowed hard and left the room. He was always shaken after meeting with the master. Those eyes, red with a black pupil, they were so unnatural, but oh so powerful. He smiled and relished the thought of pleasing the master by bringing him his desires. He walked down the stone stairs which had an eerie quiet to them. All sounds here in the Forge were muffled. He entered the next room where there were four figures trussed up to the wall, their faces twisted in agony. Around their necks were thick collars with glowing blue stones. He walked up to one of them, one he knew very well.

“Are you well, Nilest, my love?” he whispered to the male human.

Tears flowed from his hollowed eyes. “Please, help me, such pain, I loved you,” he gasped.

The red cloaked man kissed the man on the cheek. “I’m sssorry, love, but my master requiresss your magic, and Master comesss first.”

He turned and glanced at the others, all had their hands chained above their heads, and their feet were chained directly to the wall. The other three were also in pain like Nilest, their faces contorted as the bands on their necks drew off their spiritual energy. They had perhaps a week before they were drained completely. It was a long process, taking perhaps a month or more depending on the power of the wizard, but the benefits to the master were enormous.

He glanced at the slight old looking servant standing beside the door bent with more than age. He wasn’t actually old; he had been made old by the process those on the wall were going through. Having his spiritual energy removed had left him a shell of the man he once was. Some did not survive the process, but those who did became obedient servants to the master, their free will obliterated.

He stepped out the door and was greeted by a black-haired young woman. Despite the cold, she wore a pair of short breeches and a leather vest. Her long black hair whipped around her as she perched on the wall. Her eyes were bright and vivid in the night, taking in everything around her.

“Hey, how’s it going, Cage?” she asked cheerily.

The red cloaked man turned to her. “Tyla. I sssee you’re here, as usual.”

She smiled broadly. “You have quarry. You should drop the hissing, you know. I don’t think your quarry will just go running off with a guy that hisses when he talks. And the snakey look has to go, you know. You’ll get chased out of every town you come to.”

“Yeah,” he said nodding. “I’m the first. And I will drop ‘the hissing’ as you sssay when I need to, it is an effort to do so. And I can alter my looksss to sssuit my needssss…just like you. Masssster providessss all our needsss, sssissster…”

“Yes, he does, but the hissing is annoying as the nineteen hells of Sherba,” she said, rolling her eyes with a grin. “I can’t wait to prove myself to Master.”

Cage nodded. “I have to go, Tyla. Keep the masssster happy.”

The young woman grinned even wider. “Of course. Happy hunting!”

The red cloaked Cage smiled finally. “Oh, hunting is the bessst part, you know, and then I’ll make this quarry mine, body and ssssoul.”

As he walked away, his body began to change. The red rimmed eyes began to shift into a much more pleasing gray blue, and his bald, scaled head shifted into a nice shaggy hair of a blonde shade. His pale face darkened to a light tan shade, and a rough beard began to grow. He shook his head and cracked his neck.

“This should do,” he said in a mild tenor toned voice, the hissing sound gone, and a smile came to his lips. He hated the cold, but he wore an enchanted set of metal bracers which kept his body temperature up during the cold, one of the reasons he could walk about so easily despite his unique physiology.

He walked a long way before he stared up to the sky and to his luck saw the constellation he needed finally.

“Well, time to summon my new friend,” he muttered and cleared a circle on the ground.

After drawing some intricate runes, and throwing some materials in the middle, he recited a verse in a tongue not heard on Avern since the gods had been in the heavens. After a time, there was a loud crashing sound and a great column of smoke and lighting stood in front of him.

“Summoner, why have you summoned me?” a booming voice announced.

“To do my bidding.”

“What is your bidding, summoner?”

“You will bind me to another in the Zypher.”

“Doing so will destroy both.”

Cage grinned. “Yeah, I’ve heard that before.”

“Your bidding is ours to do,” came the answer from the smoky pillar. “Summon me when you wish.”

The smoke dissipated, and Cage approached the gray barrier. He glanced up to the east and saw the sky lightening. So, the night of the Blood Moon was coming to an end. It had been a good night. The King of Lineria was dead, and the puppets didn’t even know they had strings. He smiled a crooked smile and wondered how long it would be before they knew. He touched the barrier, at first it was solid and somewhat spongey feeling. He poked at it a few times then walked through it. He adjusted his pack and headed down the mountains into the country of Phomean and toward his target. He hoped it would yield some fun, at least. He really did not like to be bored.

* * *

 

 


End file.
